


Every Earth is Fit for Burial

by catsmiaow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 14:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmiaow/pseuds/catsmiaow
Summary: Since quite a few requested more to 'Quality of Mercy', here you go.  Suggest you read it first to get the background of this fic.





	Every Earth is Fit for Burial

_"Why should you love him whom the world hates so?"_

_"Because he loves me more than all the world."___

_ _\-- Christopher Marlowe, 'Edward II'_ _

_ _

_ _ ** \--------  
\--THEN--  
\-------- ** _ _

_  
___  


_ _"His grave should be over here," Sherlock said and then froze._ _

_ _John Watson nearly ran into his flatmate's back, muttering a few things under his breath that weren't compliments as he stumbled back and lifted the torch as high as he dared. Police patrolled this graveyard every hour or half-hour depending on who was on duty and what season it was. Light would draw even the sleepiest guard's attention when they tottered by._ _

_ _The complaint John had on the tip of his tongue dried up when he caught the sickly paleness of Sherlock's face in the sparse light. That weak illumination carved bruised looking curves under his companion's eyes. _Shockflesh_, his mind supplied. It was the kind of stunned look one saw in people during or re-experiencing traumatic events... something that staggered a person's mind hard enough that it tried to retreat to some safe harbour. During the war, he'd seen more than his fair share of people looking that way - awakening from nightmares or simply coming up from unconsciousness to reality._ _

_ _The gravestone before them was simple in design. Atop it stood a cloaked figure with wings outspread almost four feet wide in a guarded pose. An old-fashioned scythe rested against the statue's shoulder, its face lost in the hood covering its head. Stone carved bone hands held onto it. The Angel of Death unless John missed his guess. "Sherlock?" he asked gently, ready for most anything. Or so he believed._ _

_ _The muscles in Sherlock's jaw jumped and tensed, released and tightened again before he spoke. "He doesn't look like that."_ _

_ _ _"Mercy can't exist unless one understands the quality of it," the memory of a voice murmured in Sherlock's ear, each word cold against the back of his neck. The creature's breath had formed a mist in that garbage-choked alleyway long ago. He hadn't dared to turn and face it. To face him._ _ _

_ _A slow draw of breath in and out calmed Sherlock, allowed his friend time to delete what was in his memory or at least manage enough to continue. "This way, John."_ _

_ _Doctor John Watson could have questioned, could have pressed Sherlock Holmes more on what he'd meant, but that damaged look to his face in the stark light stayed with him. He followed just as blindly as he had before. Asking would do more harm than good, cutting open what he suspected was a slow festering wound to let out poison that wasn't ready to go. It would just gather again and perhaps begin to rot instead of being flushed out. But there was another option even if it was a placebo as surely as a sugar pill for pain would have been. Yet they sometimes worked. "Slower, Sherlock. My knee..."_ _

_ _At that, Sherlock turned back to John. The lost ugly look had faded, replaced by impatience for them to be on. But was John mistaken in that there was a relief in Sherlock's eyes to be delayed a little? Distracted? Had to be. Maybe. Either way, Sherlock slowed enough and even solicitously helped John around the hard to see stones until they found the one they needed. The further away they were from that particular statue, John saw that the more _Sherlock_ Sherlock became instead of an almost-human awakening frightened from a nightmare._ _

_ _As Sherlock went to work and lectured him on the mounds of evidence everyone had missed, John's mind turned back to the weathered statue and Sherlock's odd words. _ _

_ _ _He doesn't look like that._ _ _

_ _The present tense of the statement wasn't lost on John Watson._ _

_ _Who did Sherlock mean? _ _

_ _

_ __ _

** \-------  
\--NOW--  
\------- **

London broiled, the temperature slowly creeping up towards 37C (98.6F) in the city. Forecasts put it at reaching 39 tomorrow. The slowly setting sun didn't help cool off much, the air still feeling heavy with humidity and something ugly. It was the sort of brooding heat made a shouting match devolving into murder. Tempers fired fast, no one knowing later why everything escalated to violence so quickly. But that didn't bring the dead back to life or knit back together torn skin.

Some ignored it and went about their lives. Children played in the Regent's Canal fountains or begged to take another ride on the water logs at Brighton Pier. But there was a look in their parents' eyes that they were wary of, knowing when to stop and be silent. When it might be best to eat without complaint and head to their rooms early. No official notice was delivered to them like the Met Office did with their yellow severe weather warnings, no message passed from child to child. They simply knew with a brand of feral or survivor's knowledge that the adults around them lacked.

The rest? They sat in the shadowed places of dooryards or pubs drinking silently, eyes sullenly watching the world. Some gathered in less metaphorically dark places and whispered untrue things about others to stoke anger or hate. For some reason, it felt _good_ to tear others down, took their mind off the heat to say these things that they never would in their right mind. It was almost as if someone else spoke those poison words instead of them. Come tomorrow, whether they woke up with a hangover or not, they would have forgotten all about that silliness brought on by the weather. A shame those who heard those words or took them into their dark hearts would not have.

But that was for tomorrow.

"Explain to me again how you rate two air conditioners, and we don't even get one?" Lestrade asked, tie abandoned on his desk and the top buttons of his shirt undone. His jacket had been long abandoned on the tree by the door. Overhead, the paddle fan spun slowly, barely stirring the air. It made a low clicking every couple of turns that hinted at an all too soon death.

No pun intended.

Mycroft was too polite to point out the differences in status between the two of them. Or who really had control of the budgets. That said, it was hardly his fault that most public buildings didn't have central air but his did. 'Be prepared' wasn't just something an evil lion declared in a children's musical number. "It's the computers, Gregory. Need to keep them cool and protected, especially with the storms we're supposed to have tonight...?"

Had it been anyone else, they might have missed the hint of an unspoken question at the tail end of Mycroft's statement. DI Lestrade wasn't just anyone. "You know as much as I do about that. Severe thunderstorms they're telling us along with possible rain, hail and everything else. You going to make it home at a decent hour?"

Just as his Gregory was 'just anyone', Mycroft wasn't either. He caught the finality in those words and pushed the subject no further. There were unmapped areas between them that he knew better than to wander into, knowledge he didn't demand or try to wheedle out. He told himself that he loved enough not to, and that same love gave him a safe space where Greg didn't ask him for information he couldn't or wouldn't give even under torture.

Love. What an odd thing to experience in his life, especially at this stage. Mycroft loved Sherlock, yes, same as he had loved Mum and Father, but this was different. He would kill to keep Sherlock safe, and he supposed Doctor Watson by extension, but this wasn't the same. There were creeping quiet times late at night that Mycroft feared he could have tossed a lit match to petrol-soaked London versus see Gregory taken out of his life permanently. And it was _fear_, no doubt about that. Mycroft Holmes of all people did not like having less than total control of a situation. He supposed that was the essence of 'love' if the poets were to be believed... that complete loss of control and betrayal of all he held to be true and right.

But those were thoughts for one am, not four in the afternoon in this sweltering heat that was buckling railroads and melting aeroport tarmac.

"I will be home before you most likely," Mycroft replied. "I'll have the air on, and I was thinking sandwiches for dinner. Lundenwic has a new kale variety that-"

"No."

"No?" Mycroft tried to inject the proper amount of surprised offense at Gregory's flat turndown. He was used to mimicking emotion, not expressing it when it was true. A denial hadn't been what he had foreseen. "It's a wonderful beer braised onions, kale and cheddar toastie."

Lestrade was having none of it, thank you very much, if his tone was anything to go by. "Talked to Sherlock today, have you? Said something about your weight, didn't he?"

"Gregory..."

"Don't you 'Gregory' me. You tell Sherlock to stuff it and keep his sharp opinions to himself. I want Hawksmoor's triple cooked chips with a nice steak including their homemade parsley butter. You like their lobster roll on the pretzel bread if I remember right. I'll be home in two hours unless there's another spat over darts that ends with someone bristling them from an eyesocket instead of on the board. I'll see you at five, yeah?"

His fingers pressed to his now closed eyelids, Mycroft took a moment to steady himself before answering. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw all the flaws Sherlock used against him... too fat and hair thinning. Unattractive and perhaps unwanted, especially at his age and occupation. A blink followed as he dropped his hand back to his desk, telling himself that his eyes didn't smart. That the simple defence of himself or acceptance didn't bring a thickness to his voice. "Hawksmoor it is. I'll see you at home then."

'Home'. What a strange word for him to speak that meant being within the same walls as a creature that had lived lifetimes before he was even born. A place and a person he wanted to be with more as time went by. Needed to be, if Mycroft were honest with himself.

With that, he rang off without saying good-bye. Gregory would understand. 'Good-bye' always seemed too final.

** \--------  
\--THEN--  
\-------- **

He was dying, and it was horrible. Just as horrible as life had been if one wanted to be honest. Everything had been against him from the start. Born to a junkie mother who had barely fooled NMS, overworked as they were. The squalling detoxing baby had kept her attention long enough to keep him alive. His father? No one jumped up to volunteer themselves. From what he learned later on, it could have been any number of her customers from prostitution or drugs. Maybe one of her pimps that felt like bothering with such a shopworn addict.

By the time schooling had come about, he'd been bouncing from foster home to foster home. He'd been seven when whichever 'parent' he'd had then told him his Mum had been found dead in some back alley with a needle in her arm. The schools and system had lost track of him around ten, he supposed. Maybe eleven. Wasn't as if they were going to send out all of the Met to search for one truant runaway.

Shoplifting, petty theft, drugs, and it kept going from there. Rising higher in the ranks had been denied him, at least in his opinion. So what if he didn't know how to read well enough to get addresses right all the time or remember things well enough to pull off something complicated. Simple smash and grabs had been what he'd been relegated too. The better crews wouldn't even give him a chance because he didn't speak as pretty as they did or blend in well enough. One of the leaders had even told him that he reminded them of an egg-suck dog that would roll over and howl out anyone's name if he were caught. _Weak and stupid_, they had said. When he'd protested and taken a swing at the bastard, he'd ended up with a split scalp and broken nose.

Now here he was, hands pressed to his throat as gouts of warm blood spurted up between his dirty fingers. The plan had been simple: he’d show up unexpectedly and grab the bag of another crew, bring it back to his own, and be a hero. Be trusted! Be a big man finally. How was he supposed to know it wouldn't be just one guy with the cash? That they would kill instead of a beating to teach him a lesson? He hadn't deserved any of this.

"Hello."

He struggled to open his eyes and look up, this no-name nothing dying in an alley just like his mum. A warm hand laid across his cooling one, the pain going away along with all the bad feelings. A lightness took its place, a warm calmness. Fingers tacky with cooling blood tried clumsily to fasten onto this stranger's. Had anyone he hadn't paid for touched him that kindly before? Even his mother? "Hi," he whispered.

Most of the stranger's face was heavy with shadows, a glitter of the dim light marking where his eyes were. A hint of angular cheekbones and greying hair the street light behind him lit up like a halo was about all he could see. "It's time to go."

"I'll go anywhere with you." He tried to smile and was surprised he could. The film of blood across his tongue and teeth couldn't be pretty, but he couldn't look away from that darkened face. _Brown_, he decided. This stranger's eyes had to be brown. Something dark to match that voice. Funny, he hadn't ever considered a man before, just women.

The stranger's quiet laugh was kind and warm like a blanket he could pull around himself on a cold day, something to keep out all the bad things. Nothing cruel or jeering laid in that sound, and he found himself wanting to lean towards it like a flower would the sun. _Worth almost dying for, oh yeah. Going to smarten up, get to know him, make something of myself. Maybe find some high-class place..._ His eyes had closed without him realising it. There was a snapping flapping sound like wet sheets on a clothesline or a sail unfurling, and he felt that lovely hand tighten on his own as he was ... lifted.__

_ _Then he was gone._ _

_ _

_ __ _

** \-------  
\--NOW--  
\------- **

"If they bothered to answer my calls, then we wouldn't need to be here."

Typical Sherlock, John thought with equal amounts of exasperation and mild embarrassment. Sitting on Lestrade's stoop was not how he had envisioned his night going, especially with the thunder booming above them and the occasional lightning flashing across the black sky. The moon was lost behind the dark clouds that promised rain but didn't seem to be delivering. The humid stickiness of the air hadn't let up. "They might be having an evening 'out', Sherlock."

The wrinkle of his nose and lips in distaste told John all he needed to know about Sherlock's thoughts on _that_. A black auto that screamed 'government issue' pulled up, saving him from having to try to lecture his friend about, well, he wasn't sure what. Little of what he would say could have a lasting effect on Sherlock's way of thinking when he thought he knew more than the police. Which was often.

"I'm assuming this is not a social call," Mycroft drawled as he sat the tip of his umbrella between his feet and straightened his shoulders to stare down at his brother. John (to the doctor's sneaky relief) was ignored. 

Sherlock rose to his feet to use the advantage of being on the stairs and his own height on his brother. Anthea brushed past both of them to open up Lestrade's little flat and do a surreptitious check of the premises while setting up the takeaway for dinner. He didn't acknowledge her, something they both expected by now. "I'm looking for Lestrade. Dealing with the rest of his people would be a waste of my time. I would say theirs as well, but it isn't as if they're using it for anything worthwhile. Yet."

A gentle touch to Mycroft's back told him that his lover was up to dealing with his brother's antics instead of hiding out in the car and being let off around the cornre. He stepped aside, letting Lestrade step onto the kerb beside him. "It's been a long night, Sherlock," he began.

The detective cut him off quick. Hearing about Lestrade's problems would have no impact on the case being solved in a timely manner. If anything, it would slow all of that down. "You need to do another search of the basement of the King's Cross flat. Your incompetent people missed what is sure to be a shallow grave dug in the side of - "

Thunder exploded above them, everyone except for Lestrade and Sherlock cringing some and looking for cover. Because of that, only Sherlock saw it and felt his breath try to choke him. Lestrade's gaze was on him but focused on some point far past him. Lightning flew across the sky in deadly patterns, echoed in the DI's eyes. Another blast of thunder sent a shake through the ground, car alarms sounding off in a discordant symphony. Sherlock tried to step back, John suddenly plastered against his back and calling his name loudly, trying to be heard over the storm. Something about him being less **'there'** for a moment.

Hail began to fall from the sky without fanfare or warning, quarter-sized bits coming down hard enough to make small dent with each _ping_ off metal, small cracks left where they struck glass. Skin bruised or broke under the onslaught. Mycroft's umbrella opened with a snap that made Sherlock flinch and look upwards. His body wasn't responding to the rapid useless signals his mind was sending out, John physically lifting him to get him under the shield of Mycroft's umbrella. Some disconnected part of Sherlock knew John's knee would be shrieking later tonight from the strain. The rest of him was recoiling from being too close to Lestrade right now... or the thing that called itself Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Knowledge wasn't always a perfect thing, a lesson Sherlock Holmes learned too late.

It wasn't often that Mycroft reacted in urgency, his movements measured and restrained. Except for now. Just as John had surged to protect Sherlock when whatever it was happened between himself and Gregory, he had as well. The dark sky breaking open above them to pour down stinging ice rocks of hail only gave him more of a reason. His free arm went around Greg's waist, pulling him close. It was like dragging a warm doll against him for all the resistance Greg had to being moved. He didn't see whatever expression his lover's face held, but judging from Watson and Sherlock's horrified ones, it was bad. Despite the heat, it was arctic cold under the umbrella. Hail hammered around them, threatening to tear the brolly's fabric while their breath fogged the air. A fine crack-layer of frost spread across their faces and shirts. Mycroft had the worst of it with him holding Gregory against him in a panicky tight grip, that cold seep into his skin.

Only Watson and Sherlock saw the DI's eyes. It was as if they had turned to mirrors, no defined pupil or iris or sclera. Even under the umbrella, his eyes were filled with the spiderwebs of lightning in a mirror of what lit up London's skies above them. 

John Watson's mind ran in a circle as he watched this, breath struggling to get through what felt like a windpipe suddenly the size of a straw. _That can't be. There's no reflection under here. He's shaded. But when he looked at Sherlock, and he almost wasn't there._

Sherlock Holmes tried to hear over the downpour of hail for the whipcrack sound of massive wings. His mind was empty of thought.

Time itself seemed to stop for all of them, the world going silent and still except for Lestrade's quiet voice... except it wasn't the Lestrade they knew. Not really. It was heard more with the mind than the ears.

"I see you."

That sense of a world put on pause held a second or three longer until Anthea bullied them all out of the way to get to Mycroft and shove him ruthlessly towards the open door of Lestrade's flat. Watson and Sherlock were given little choice but to follow. Lestrade ended up half-dragged/half-carried by default.

For the next few minutes, everything was a flurry of activity as the door was slammed shut and Athena talked rapidly into a hidden microphone while checking Mycroft over. Some distant part of Sherlock felt a smug pleasure at it being confirmed that Mycroft had a squad of guards watching over Lestrade's place. That aside, he was quicker to break out of his surprise? horror? fear? over what had happened than John was. 

"What was that, Sherlock? You almost weren't there. I could see through you," John whispered, hands white-knuckled as he held onto Sherlock's solid arm.

For once, Sherlock didn't shake him off. But he didn't say anything either. The secret wasn't his to tell.

Of them, only Mycroft stood collected and calm, his hands holding Gregory Lestrade's face between them and speaking too low to be heard. Lestrade's whole body seemed to jump as if jolted with an electrical shock. A blink and his hands lifted to rest against Mycroft's. A half-smile was all their audience saw as he replied to whatever Mycroft had said. Mycroft's thumbpad traced along one of Lestrade's eyebrows as he sighed, letting out all the stress.

"Would someone tell me what that was?" John demanded, not relinquishing his hold on Sherlock even when he became painfully aware that all eyes were on him. 

All of them were silent until Lestrade himself finally drew Mycroft's hands away from his face and turned to give John Watson his fully attention. He didn't miss the tiny involuntary flinch John had at this. "I can explain, but you probably need to take a seat for this, John, and keep an open mind."

**** \-------  
\--NOW--  
-STILL-  
\-------

_I see you._

That knocked him out of his trance. There it was. There was that voice from long ago. His hands felt warm with the phantom trace of the memory of that touch.

London would sweat and bake tomorrow in the heat, same with all of Europe, but he was ecstatic. Who cared if a few died? He had, and he was here again. And so was the stranger, that one. That kindly one.

What he had sacrificed to be here again meant nothing.

He had seen that face, those eyes. And they really were brown.

And he knew who _he_ was with. The 'he' that the nameless one had come back from dying for.

_Worth almost dying for, oh yeah. Going to smarten up, get to know him, make something of myself. Maybe find some high-class place...___

_ _He hadn't forgotten that, had held to that idea while he'd fought his way back to life. Now he had the chance to, and that skinny fuck or the one with the brolly wasn't going to stop him._ _


End file.
